On my 26th
birthday I had a miscarriage. It was Martin Luther King Jr. day, and I had a
dream.
I had a
dream- a precious, close-to-my-heart, long-time dream. And now that dream was dying, quite literally, with each painful surge
of cramps & blood.
Zack & I did everything right. We had known each other
forever, we were in love, we got married, and we made the conscious decision to
wait a few years before having children. We wanted to be married for a while, just the
two of us, so we could learn every facet of each other’s souls, travel, live
out our dreams, & just be selfish with our love so that when we were ready
for children, we would be the best possible parents. We eat (mostly) healthy,
we exercise regularly, and we take vitamins (I’ve actually been taking a
prenatal vitamin for a year & a half now because I heard it makes your hair
grow.) We have our stuff together, we’re educated, we take care of ourselves,
we treat others with kindness & compassion, we do our best to contribute
positively to this world, we laugh, we live life to the fullest, and most
importantly we love each other so much it doesn’t seem real at times. We are
doing everything right.
We did
everything right, yet everything went wrong.
Everything
began to go wrong in the bathroom of a CiCi’s Pizza. (I knew that place was
trouble.) We’d just finished a mediocre lunch of mushy pizza, and thanks to my
six glasses of water, I wanted to use the bathroom before we left. While in the
bathroom, I noticed some spotting. It was brown. I became alarmed, but tried to
not go into full-fledged panic mode because I’d read that a lot of times brown
or pink spotting is fairly normal in early pregnancy. As the day progressed,
the spotting turned pink, and then light red, and by that evening, a shocking,
final red. I knew what was happening.
I can’t
remember the last time I saw Zack cry like that, if ever. We sat on the itchy
bedspread of the Ft. Drum Inn, holding each other, and sobbed. I didn’t think
we would ever stop. Our faces were so wet. We tried kissing the hurt away, but
it just made it worse- knowing something that our love had made wasn’t good
enough. The next day, my birthday, the doctor confirmed what I already knew.
Happy birthday dear Liza, happy birthday to you.
My precious
Zack tried so desperately to make my 26th birthday happy. I woke up
to a gift of Naked juices, salt & vinegar chips (my favorites), and two
homemade gift certificates for camera equipment & a day of shopping. He had
even typed out a “birthday girl itinerary” for the day, full of all my favorite
things. I couldn’t read the card he had written for me, the tears were spilling
out faster than I could wipe them. I wasn’t sure what I was crying for- the
fact that I married such a sweet man, or the fact that a little baby wasn’t
going to know how very special their daddy is. He would be the best father.
We drove to
Syracuse late that morning for shopping. I was in so much pain, both physically
and emotionally, but the prospect of sitting in a dim hotel room crying all day
was too much. I walked around Forever 21 listlessly; I noticed nothing in
H&M except the children’s section. “I’M HAVING A MISCARRIAGE,” I silently
screamed at everyone I passed. “LIKE. RIGHT NOW. MY BODY IS ABORTING MY BABY.” They politely
smiled back. So did I.
People have
told me this doesn’t mean I won’t be able to have another baby, and that a lot
of first pregnancies end in miscarriage, whether or not the mother is even
aware. That doesn’t matter to me, I am still terrified. I cannot imagine going
through this again. This kind of hurt does something to you- it subtly morphs your soul into a new shape. I
am trying to think positively, trying to find the good in the situation. I take
comfort in knowing this was part of natural selection, and that there was
clearly something very wrong with that baby- it wasn’t made for this world. I
also take comfort in trusting God has this all figured out, even though I’m
blind to the reason for this at the current moment. I like to believe that
sweet little formation of cells was looking out for its (hopefully) healthy
brothers & sisters to follow, sort of doing a little recon, you know?
Clearing the way. “Okay y’all, it’s all ready!” That makes me smile.
But I have a
lot of anger in me, too. I have immense anger for the dependapotamus lurching
down the aisles of the PX with her little dependents in tow, screaming obscenities
at them. I have anger for all the unmarried couples I see on Facebook having
babies. I have anger for my social media friends who feel the need to post 92
pictures a day of their child. I have anger for the couples who conceive within
a few months of being married- don’t you guys want some “just the two of you”
time? I have anger for the mom with 5 kids- come on now, you’re just being
greedy. I have anger for Teen Mom, for diaper commercials, and the baby next
door who cries a lot, but even worse, giggles more.
I know where
that anger is coming from. It’s coming from the deep, seemingly bottomless well
of sorrow I have building up inside of me. And that anger can rage all it
likes, spew hurtful comments under my breath, and shoot death glares at all the
cute little mommies with their cute little bundles of joy shopping in the
commissary- but the sad truth is that that anger comes from heartbreak. And
anything born of heartache is going to eventually return to its original state.
I guess that’s why after scoffing at the brood of snotty-nosed children running
rampant in the parking lot and congratulating myself on being able to get in
& out of a car without having to bother with an annoying car seat, I feel
the familiar tears settle in their familiar tracks down my cheeks. They know
the route well.
The entire
situation is heartbreaking, and I do mean that in an almost literal way. Your
heart just feels like its cracked open and is spilling out onto the floor. Why
even attempt to pick it up? It will never be the same. But one of the most
heartbreaking aspects, for me, has been how alone I feel. Out of all the
hundreds, maybe thousands, of people I know…I know of two who have had
miscarriages. Two. Am I really so unfortunate, that I am the 1 out of x-x-x
number statistic that has had a miscarriage? This is 2013, why is this such a taboo topic? I know it’s not something anyone probably wants to chat
about over coffee & biscotti, but it’s real, it’s happening, and we need
to. I need to, anyway. Most people keep this kind of thing under wraps, as if keeping it hidden is going to make it hurt any less. It feels strange to open myself up like this, making both Zack & myself vulnerable. But it's liberating, too. What's the point of hiding this awful secret? Keeping it hidden hurts, and telling people hurts. It's a lose-lose situation. I know most people present only the rosiest sides of their life online, but I can't type some inane answer to Facebook's "What's going on, Liza?" This is what's going on, and I'm sorry that it is really sad and that I am really sad, but I can't pretend otherwise.
I like to think each day is better than the one before it, but it is not that consistent. One day I may laugh and play and curl my hair, but the next day I am bedridden, the crushing weight of grief holding me prisoner under the covers. Does it ever get better? If I am fortunate enough to get to experience pregnancy again, it will be marred by this and I am so fearful that I will live those nine months in constant worry and anxiety. Constant, debilitating trepidation that another dream, another life, will slip so easily through my fingers. I know all too well that it doesn't matter how tightly you hold on. Some dreams were meant to be just that.
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I like to think each day is better than the one before it, but it is not that consistent. One day I may laugh and play and curl my hair, but the next day I am bedridden, the crushing weight of grief holding me prisoner under the covers. Does it ever get better? If I am fortunate enough to get to experience pregnancy again, it will be marred by this and I am so fearful that I will live those nine months in constant worry and anxiety. Constant, debilitating trepidation that another dream, another life, will slip so easily through my fingers. I know all too well that it doesn't matter how tightly you hold on. Some dreams were meant to be just that.
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What happens to a dream deferred?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
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